


Kite

by 391780 (goblinparty)



Series: Cold Wind [23]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Explicit Drug Use, Gen, M/M, iv drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:09:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3491243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goblinparty/pseuds/391780
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kite was surprisingly easy to find.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kite

Kite was surprisingly easy to find. When Wrench kicked down the door to his dingy, mold-ridden house, he seemed beyond surprised to see his coworkers.

“You idiots don't know how to knock?!” Numbers responded by tazing him into unconsciousness and shoving his limp body into an overlarge duffel bag, which Wrench carried out to the car. Fortunately for them, it was the middle of the day, which meant everyone in the working-class neighborhood Kite lived in was gone at work. They could have set off a firecracker in the middle of his street and nobody would have noticed. They sped out to an old house at the edge of town, unloading their half conscious, groaning cargo unseen and carrying it down to the basement where Wrench dropped the bag on the floor with a hard thud. Numbers was constantly in awe of how much weight his partner could carry, and tried to remember what he would have done in the old days before Fargo required partners. Sedatives and wheelchairs, probably, but watching Wrench show off his strength was significantly more fun for Numbers. He watched as Wrench attached the shackle to Kite's leg, attaching him to the wall by a thick iron chain. A tarp was set down on the floor, and a large bucket was set next to a ratty mattress. Pike had taught them a lesson: never unchain your prisoner, even to take a piss. It was better to have to empty a smelly latrine bucket every now and again than risk losing their mark.

“Ughh, fuck you want, Numbers? Fuck is all this shit for?” Kite mumbled. Numbers smiled wickedly, exposing all of his teeth as he squatted down next to Kite.

“I want to know who else was helping you fuck over Fargo to help start your own syndicate.” Kite's eyes snapped open wide, and he stared at Numbers.

“I- I didn't, I would never-” Numbers silenced him by holding up one finger, leaving a visibly panicked Kite silently shaking on the floor from fear.

“Pike gave you up right before we handed him over to Abilene's associates from Mexico. You heard about poor old Pike, didn't you? We know everything, Kite. The best thing you can do is give up who helped you.”

“N-nobody helped me. Nobody. It was just Pike- I mean us..” Numbers sighed loudly at the obvious lie. He was already too tired to deal with this shit, and he was losing patience fast.

“Wrong answer.” Numbers turned to face the clock on the far wall, which said it was six. Numbers knew it was time to get started. He pulled a small black bag out of his jacket and opened it up, carefully pulling out a hypodermic needle, a spoon, a lighter, and a small ball of black sticky substance wrapped tightly in plastic. He nodded to Wrench, who threw him a water bottle. He filled the syringe partially with water and squirted it on the spoon, heating up the water by holding the lighter underneath. As he unwrapped the plastic baggy of black goo, the thick smell hit his nose and a strange wave of nostalgia washed over him. It had been a very long time since he'd done this, but for him, it was like riding a bicycle. After all, you don't ever really forget how to shoot heroin.

“You scared of needles, Kite?” Numbers flicked on his lighter, waving it around under the spoon until the brown goo bubbled. Kite didn't respond, he merely whimpered on the cold floor, crying softly and shaking. Numbers chuckled to himself. Kite had thought he could run a syndicate, and yet here he was, curled up in the fetal position on the floor. Not exactly mob boss material. He filled the needle and tapped out the bubbles, and he noticed Wrench watching him very intensely. He strolled over to Kite, kneeling by the shivering man.

“I'm gonna stick you, Kite. It'll make you feel better, but if you give me any shit I'll have Wrench sit on your chest while I inject it in your eyeball. Get me?” A small, weak sob to the affirmative was his only reply. Numbers slipped off his belt and tied it around Kite's arm, jabbing the needle into the first vein that popped up. Wrench waved to get his attention.

_What is that?_ Numbers sighed. Explaining this was not going to be easy. He pushed the plunger before responding. 

_H-e-r-o-i-n. We get him hooked, he won't want to leave even if we unchain him. We put him through withdrawals, he'll tell us anything we want just for a fix. This guy knows how to handle pain, he doesn't know how to handle being a j-u-n-k-i-e._ Numbers waited for a lecture, a stern face with frantic hands, but instead he received a small smile and thoughtful nod.

_That's brilliant._ Numbers blinked a few times. Had he really seen those words? Was this the same guy who refused to speak to him after popping a kid? He felt a knot twist in his stomach. Wrench was getting better at this, getting colder, and while it was good for Fargo, Numbers didn't think he liked this new change in his partner. He simply shrugged and packed away the needle, watching Kite's body go limp with ecstasy as the heroin took hold. 

“I feel sick. I'm gonna puke.” Kite muttered sleepily.

“Give it a minute and you won't care.” Numbers turned on his heel and went up the stairs, followed closely behind by Wrench, who watched Kite's eyes roll into the back of his head while he relaxed on the hard cement floor.

\--

A week and a half passed, all with the same routine. Feed Kite, give him drugs at the exact same times every day, and laze about 'til it was time to feed him or shoot him up again. Kite would loudly beg for an injection at least half an hour before his scheduled times, and Numbers would try his best to ignore the loud whining coming from the basement. It was all like clockwork, everything happening at the exact same time with no variations whatsoever. The monotony was practically unbearable. Wrench had finished his book days ago, and he was getting cabin fever. He waved to get Numbers' attention.

_What's your favorite holiday?_ Numbers' eyebrows shot up.

_What?_

_What's your favorite holiday?_ Wrench repeated the signs at an condescendingly slow pace, causing Numbers to roll his eyes.

_Why the fuck would you ask me that?_ Wrench grinned sheepishly.

_Because I'm bored and I want to know you better._ Numbers rolled his eyes even harder at that. What a sappy baby.

_Fourth of July._ Wrench looked surprised at that.

_I never took you for the patriotic sort._ Numbers barked out a laugh that made his side hurt.

_It's not about the holiday itself. Every Fourth the boss has a big list of people he wants gone. Excellent money in it, and it's a lot easier to get so much done in one night because people can't really tell the difference between fireworks and gunshots. They sound very similar, so it takes longer to rouse suspicion and have the cops get called._ Wrench smirked and shook his head in amusement.

_They sound the same? Guns and fireworks?_

_Close enough. Point is, it's loud, and it covers up screams and gunshots. It's a huge payday for everyone, but you have to keep an eye out because that's when everyone else is killing, too. It might be easy to find a target and kill him, but keep in mind that if you somehow managed to get your name on a list somewhere, someone is out looking for you, too. But, hey, you can make close to half a million bucks over one holiday, so it's fucking worth it._ Numbers shrugged and took a sip of his coffee.

_What do you even do with the money you make? I mean, I assume we make the same per hit, right?_ Wrench raised his eyebrows, hoping Numbers wouldn't contradict him. The older man laughed.

_Actually, you make a couple thousand more than me. You're stronger, younger, with no record to speak of, and you're less suspicious to cops because you're Deaf. Fargo really wants to keep you because of that._ Wrench scowled and Numbers held up his hands in apology.  _I'm not saying it's right, but it's a good thing cops underestimate you, you know?You'll get away with more, which means you'll be an asset longer._

_You still didn't answer my question._ Numbers averted his gaze. Fuck, he'd been caught. He thought he could distract Wrench with the money thing, but if there was one thing he knew about his partner, it was that he was direct and not easily distracted.

_Not a word of this to anyone, alright? You tell anyone and I'll throw you down there with Kite._ Wrench crossed his heart with his fingers, putting on the most sincere and innocent face he could muster.  _I've got a Grandmother with Alzheimer’s. It's expensive for her to live in the facility she does, but they take really good care of her. She's the only family I really liked, besides my sister, so I owe it to her to make sure she lives well while she's still around._

The clock on the wall indicated it was noon, and on instinct, Wrench stood up and sauntered towards the cellar door. He felt a tap on his back.

_Not today. We'll interrogate him in a few hours when he's good and desperate. Til then, we let him wait and panic._ Numbers slouched back in his chair at the kitchen table. Wrench sat across from him, his mind swimming. He should feel bad for Kite, about what they were doing to him, but he just couldn't. There was no part of him that wanted to stop this or make Numbers kill him quick, and it worried him. He had come to accept that Numbers was a Bad Man, but accepting that he himself was a Bad Man was slightly more difficult. Before Fargo, he'd just kill people. One shot to the head from a long distance so they never saw it coming. Quick, clean, painless. In his mind, that still made him a Good Man, despite still being a killer. Now, however, everything was different. He was learning how to cause suffering, and he was enjoying picking up the new techniques Numbers was teaching him. With every lesson, he felt himself becoming better, more dangerous, more formidable, and he liked that. He watched as Numbers' eyes darted to the cellar door and then back to the clock.

_It's only 15 minutes past and he's already screaming his face off for a fix. A few more hours and we'll have him right where we want him. Thank god for soundproofing and far away neighbors, though._ Numbers rubbed his temples, obviously irritated at the noise coming from the basement.

_You'll have to teach me how to do that sometime. Soundproofing, I mean. Not heroin._ Numbers cracked a weary smile.

_Not interested in starting up a new, needle-based hobby?_ Wrench wrinkled his nose and shook his head.

_And end up like that poor bastard downstairs? Pass._

–  
A few hours later, it was time to check in on Kite. Wrench noticed the smell of vomit first. It was everywhere, covering everything. It looked like he didn't even try to hit the bucket. Kite was huddled on the floor, rocking back and forth and shaking violently. As soon as he heard them descend the stairs, he rushed towards them until he ran out of chain, grasping for them desperately.

“Please!” Kite's voice cracked, horse from all the screaming he'd been doing over the past six hours. He writhed on the floor, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Please, please, give it to me, I'll give them up. I'll give them all up. I need it, _please_ , Numbers. You want me to suck your dick? I'll do it, I'll suck you dry, just give it to me, _**please**_.” Numbers had never been so glad to date someone who couldn't hear. He was pretty sure if Wrench had caught that, Kite would be a bloody pulp attached to a leg shackle and they would have no way of identifying how far this betrayal spread.

“All you have to do is talk, Kite.” Numbers grabbed his face, his thumbs tracing Kite's cheekbones. “Give us the names, and I'll give you what you want.”

“Spicelli, Lanson, and Mr. Red. That's it, that's it, please, Numbers, please. I need it so bad. I'll do anything.” Numbers nodded to Wrench, who handed him the little black bag. Kite's eyes grew wide with greed as he watched Numbers prepare the dose and fill the needle, and didn't seem to notice that it was a bit too much. He whimpered and squirmed in anticipation as Numbers slid the needle into his vein and pushed the plunger, shoving an absurd amount of heroin into Kite's veins. A grateful sigh was the only response Numbers received or needed. Shortly Kite would overdose, but at least he'd be too blissed out to care. Numbers smoothed back Kite's hair before standing up and facing Wrench.

_He'll be dead soon. We'll dump him in an alley somewhere as soon as his heart stops._ Numbers pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, tapping away at the keys and trying desperately to remember how Spicelli spelled his name as he crafted his message to Aussie. Only a moment after he hit 'send', his phone buzzed in his hands with a message from Aussie.

_BOSS SAYS USE KITE TO SEND A MESSAGE. -JERGEN_

Numbers winced. Sending a message meant 'make it messy', and the messier a crime scene was, the more evidence got left behind. He cursed under his breath while typing out a ' _will do_ ' to Aussie, then turned to Wrench.

_ Boss says send a message with Kite's body. Any ideas?  _ Wrench tapped his chin thoughtfully for a moment, then his eyes went wide and a malicious grin spread across his face.

_Hang him by his intestines from a tree. Carve 'traitor' in his chest. Leave him somewhere that the other traitors will find him._ Numbers nodded his head. Wrench was getting more creative with this stuff, and he couldn't help but feel strangely proud.

_He said Spicelli, Lanson, and Mr. Red are involved. I say we use that bigass maple in Red's yard. Let his wife find it._ Wrench winced a bit at that.

_Poor woman. She's not one of those stay-at-home wives, is she? Otherwise it won't work, she'll see us put him up._

_Nah, she's a vet, I think. Something involving long hours and scrubs. She's busier than Red is._ Numbers' attention was diverted by Kite vomiting one last time on the floor before shuddering and going very still. He held up a finger to Wrench and checked Kite's pulse. Nothing. Numbers reasoned that at least he wouldn't feel anything when they gutted him and wrapped his intestines around his neck. He nodded to Wrench, who pulled out a boxcutter from his jacket as he lifted Kite's shirt to expose his soft, pale belly, silently asking any god out there to forgive him for what he had done and was about to do. 

\--

The next morning, as Linda Redgrave got ready for work, she felt something was off. She pulled on her scrubs and kissed her sleeping husband Greg goodbye before heading out the door. She didn't get two paces past her own threshold before spotting the bleeding, disemboweled corpse swinging from her front tree. She screamed at the top of her lungs, causing the lights to go on in several houses up her street. Her husband rushed to her side to see what was the matter, only to be rendered speechless by the sight of a colleague’s corpse swaying in the cold wind. He grabbed his wife's arm tightly.

“Greg, oh my god, who is that? Who would do that? Why is- Ah!” Mr. Red twisted his wife's arm in an effort to silence her. Neighbors were crowding around their property, and it was only a matter of time before the police would show up and start asking questions. He pulled Linda inside, slamming the door behind them and pinning her to the wall.

“We are leaving. You will never ask me why, if you know what's best for you. We'll find you another job somewhere, but we cannot stay here.”

“Greg, wh-” He slapped her hard across the cheek, her eyes welling with tears of confusion, anger, and betrayal.

“Never ask. Not if you want to live.” Her eyes widened but her face hardened. If she was thinking about divorce, she wasn't stupid enough to bring it up right then. She rushed to the back bedroom, pulling suitcases from the closet and stuffing them with everything she could fit. Mr. Red slid against the wall and sat on the floor, his mind going between where they could possibly hide and the corpse in his yard with the words 'traitors always pay' carved into what was left of it's hollowed out chest.

  
  


 


End file.
